


I Am Justice

by Joutsen



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/M, Love Triangles, Lure of the Dark Side, Mandalorian Wars, Revan kicks ass, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:24:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joutsen/pseuds/Joutsen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>KotOR and GotG (movie) X-over. A clash with fate sends a dark stranger to a galaxy in turmoil. There, the Revanchist is willing to go to drastic measures for the sake of freedom, of justice. Dire circumstances force Revan and the gloomy Kree to cooperate - and sharing feelings for the same woman might make it all quite complex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kree

**Author's Note:**

> So... This is a crossover I've been working with and just for the fun of doing so. It's a Mandalorian War era action/adventure/love triangle story featuring male Revan, Meetra Surik (the Exile) and Ronan the Accuser from GotG. Doesn't sound very typical, now that I've typed it here. :D
> 
> Yes - this is a Star Wars KotOR and Guardians of the Galaxy (movie) X-over. This is located in the KotOR universe and the timeline starts during the Mandalorian Wars, at the height of the Mandalorian onslaught, with Revan commanding a portion of the Republic fleet. Or, in Ronan's case, immediately after the ending of the movie. Do I even need to say that this contains spoilers for the movie? 
> 
> After being face-to-face with his own mortality, Ronan finds himself (painfully) in the galaxy far, far away...and so it begins.
> 
> Strongly AU, artistic freedom will be taken where needed. This fic ignores the Revan book (like all my KotOR fics).
> 
> Hopefully you enjoy the story, feel free to comment!

It was a flash of purple light. No – the soul of the universe itself was purple. It was chaos in its rawest form.

And red, hungry, throbbing pain. The feeling of his skin peeling off; muscle and finally bone being exposed and melting, until nothing remained.

And the thought of the utmost defeat.

…And death.

It was over. The petty Peter Quill had won. He and his motley crew of pathetic beings had managed to shift the odds to their favor. Odds he never knew even existed.

He had been so close. And he had lost.

It was over.

* * *

"Sir, we've detected an explosion on the surface," his comm crackled.

"I saw it, Lieutenant," he replied. "Take a group down. Check it, get a visual. Proceed with caution. If it's of Mandalorian origin, do not let them expect you coming."

_If it's Mandalorian they bloody expect us coming._

The man's voice did not give out much emotion due to the vocalizer integrated to the Mandalorian mask fully obscuring his features. But mentally he was cursing. The mask was a threatening sight, painted with colors of blood red and obsidian – the clan colors of its original carrier. For him, it was a symbol. And for many – he was a symbol.

The tall man, clad in his unique set of armor, was standing by the large transparisteel windows located at the end of the bridge of the Republic _Interdictor-_ class cruiser, the _Justice._ Like the mask, his armor was one of the distinct external aspects he was known of among allies and enemies. It did not characterize him as a practitioner of any certain form of combat, but rather seemed to contain essences of many within its construction. Alerted by the recent and yet unsolved disturbance, Revan felt the tingle of grim anticipation inside his gut.

His mind was furiously calculating possibilities. A majority of the almost sixty navy officers stationed at the _Justice's_ bridge showed slight signs of concern. Their emotions were near effortless for Revan to read, but he shut their auras outside of his mind and had the peak of his concentration directed towards the face of the moon.

…Had the Mandalorians been able to slip under his radar? Had the fleet lost its cover?

Was the plan about to shatter?

Revan, a Commander at the Republic Navy, the Revanchist and a Jedi Knight, had sensed the lone disturbance in the Force mere minutes ago. It had been a single spike, but its intensity so fierce and aggressive that it could have pierced through the thickest metal. Both instinctively and guided by the Force he had turned his eyes towards the surface of the nearby moon. And although they were far in the orbit, he had been able to distinguish a lone flash of light and fading boundaries of an expanded ball of fire.

Revan stood still, his arms crossed over his armored chest and his eyes restlessly sweeping across what he knew to be the lush green surface of Antar 4. Looking almost tempting like a sweet and ripe fruit when bathing in sunlight, like a glimpse of a fertile paradise, Antar 4 was far from being so. Although once an ally of the Republic and not officially claimed by Mandalorians, the moon was sitting so close to the exact heart of the war that it was not a safe zone. Far from it. And yet there they remained.

The orbit of the small moon circling the mother planet, the gas giant Antar, which was a pale orb looming in the distance, had been their station for two days. The strong electromagnetic currents of Antar 4 distorted a majority of signals and the magnetic signature emitted by a spaceship, a group of ships even. By positioning the fleet to the orbit, almost dangerously close to the moon's surface and slowly following the darkened night side of the small moon with minimum power, they were hidden. The entire fleet of ships disappeared from any sensor's sight. It was like a sensor jammer of godly extent – no, more a vicious cloaking device never seen before. By constantly re-calibrating ship computers they were able to adjust to the never endingly changing environment and monitor their surroundings.

But there were risks and they were huge.

Someone could have said that it had been an insane plan. _Insane_ in the exact same manner someone proceeding to pet a Krayt Dragon on the head would be described. Or moreover, someone providing a dental job for a Krayt. Hell – Revan would have said it himself had the initial idea not been his or had he not seen that there were no other ways.

The stakes were high. Ultimate.

And he knew that they were going to get nothing more than this one shot. This one bullet. This one lunge towards the heart of darkness. The one opening amidst the almost imperforable wall of defense.

Eventually, everything would come down to timing.

It was a good location, yet far from perfect. But it was as satisfactory as it was going to get. The moon was habited and although once a part of the Republic, the bulk of Mandalorian fleets had swept past only days ago. It was likely that Mandalorians were monitoring the area. It was only a matter of days or maybe even hours until their cover would be blown. Revan not was not an optimist; he was a realist and understood mechanics of probabilities.

Strategically sometimes gains outweigh risks. That is the target, which should be sought, should be aimed for, and Revan knew it. Looking at pure and brutal mathematics this was not one of those cases. They were expected to be seriously outnumbered and outgunned.

Everything would come down to timing.

To the element of surprise.

He would have never taken this route unless he saw that there was a chance.

...And likely this was their only chance.

They all were tense and stressed, mentally and physically prepared to jump into the battle at all moments. Mandalorians were advancing towards the core like a restless tide, which had washed everything away in its wake. They had battered the Republic navy to pieces at Commenor. They had shredded the Republic defense forces at Exodeen. Ships were burning to nothingness. Citadels were bombed to dust and only glass craters remained where once stood buildings.

But this was not it. The actual objective of Mandalorians. These had been only preparations for the upcoming.

Revan was certain of the next target. It was deep in the core.

The twenty-six _Interdictor_ -class cruisers stationed on the orbit of Antar 4, each carrying over three thousand Republic soldiers, was a formidable fleet even on its own. But it was far from enough, far from what he expected to need. There were another twenty _Interdictors_ and dozens of _Hammerheads_ en route, only a day's worth of hours away.

They had to wait. They had no other options.

How the events were going to unfold in the core depended solely on how well they were able to time their next offensive.

"Any signs of Mandalorian movement?" he asked although he already knew the answer.

"No sir. We don't detect anything," the intelligence officer stated looking at her screens.

_What in the Hell that was then?_

He did not need to wait long for the answer. The operation had lasted only barely an hour when his com activated again.

"Sir, there is a survivor," the Lieutenant reported.

"A humanoid. Of unknown affiliation."

* * *

He was floating. Embraced by the whitest of lights.

" _Get it off!"_

First he understood that there was something wrong. It was one of those primal instincts that all beings are capable of. Even in his current state he was able to decipher this.

He knew that something was terribly amiss. Out of place.

It was more of an intuition, not a coherent thought.

And yet he clung on to it.

"… _broken. A blood sample is…"_

The blood he did remember. How it had boiled inside his veins. As if it had been heated acid.

And just like acid it had eaten its way out...

" _Reaction is positive… Increase the…"_

…And his skin had ceased to exist.

He remembered watching his hands burn away when the purple flame engulfed them.

White-hot heat. It had played patterns on his skin. Sharp talons had shredded flesh. Millions of blade-edged teeth pulverized the bone.

But the pain was not significant.

…The matter that he had failed in his task was.

" _Brain functions are… Should I…?"_

" _Put it on. As a precaution until…"_

He had failed.

What he had seen as the salvation had exploded into his face. The answer – the resolution had betrayed him. His people. The cause was lost.

…Shattered. Gone.

He felt the fingers of his right hand clench into a fist.

" _He is reacting to the physical stimulus."_

" _I'll sedate him."_

Voices. Discussing. And like a wall closing in the present moment was there. It was with him.

Now!

All instincts screaming of red-edged danger and fresh rage flaring inside his mind he sat up with fierce speed. Blinking once when his eyes found their ability to see, his vision locked immediately to a hand and fingers bent around a syringe. And he lunged forward to lock the wrist inside his grasp. It was a human hand. Pale skin, five fingers.

Weak.

He bent the hand around with ease until the needle of the syringe penetrated the human's skin at the chest and he punched the piston aggressively down with his left. The substance left the syringe and entered the circulation of the man who was able to heave out a wailing sound before hitting the ground.

"Do not toy with me," he heard the growl leave his lips, voice coarse.

"Do not move!" the commanding, but apparently shocked shout came from behind him… And he turned his head towards the voice to see a barrel of a pistol pointing towards his chest.

A petty object held with two hands by a small human female.

Grimacing due to frustration he dropped down from what he had perceived to be a bed. Felt his feet and knees touch the cool floor and winced due to a sensation of pain somewhere at the back of his mind, which he utterly ignored. And taking cover by the bed he pushed, with both hands and with all of his strength – to see the bed slide and hit the opposite wall with a loud clank.

The female screamed the exact moment when she was slammed between the bed and the wall. Her second scream was a high-pitched one and it followed the first when he closed the distance and twisted the pistol from her hand. It was of unknown design, but he located the trigger with ease. Without hesitation or remorse he turned the direction of the barrel around and pulled the trigger. The pistol spat once, one blue ray. She fell down, mouth yet screaming but not making any sound.

He heaved in a long, heavy breath. Filled his lungs.

This was the first time Ronan had an actual opportunity of thinking.

He was inside what appeared to be some sort of a medical room. It was small, brightly lit, housing only a utility table full of equipment, the bed and what had been three monitors. Now two of them laid shattered on the grey floor. The people he had taken down did not seem heavily armored. Possibly the were only members of medical staff. He did not recognize their uniforms, nor the insignia.

The interior of the room was very plain and very functional. Everything screamed 'military' to him. But the lack of guards was intriguing.

If he was held by the Nova Corps, they appeared to be so incompetent that it was almost an insult.

This was the moment when he distinguished the slight sensation of pressure on his skin, circling his neck. He had a collar – as if he was a dog. An animal. A pest. The dry snap of the metallic collar was a satisfying sound when it broke down under the force of the rage-fuelled pull of his hand. He let the broken equipment fall to the floor and never took another look at it, disinterested to contemplate on the means of his apparent humiliation.

And there was more. His armor was gone. Stripped away. Only plain, gray trousers covered his body. Chest bare, no shoes. Unarmed and almost naked. This was not a good start for a battle.

The stinging pain was more pronounced now. It followed the full length of his left arm and he had to drop it to hang like a useless broken prosthetic, leaving the right to handle the pistol. In addition there was something wrong at the left side of his chest. Breathing felt heavy. As if he had to use more force in order to fill his lungs with air. It was not a promising sign. Not by any means.

…And why did he recollect his own demise? Because he had died, hadn't he? The Terran, Peter Quill, had directed the Infinity Stone's power towards him. At him.

Peter Quill – he had categorized the thief as someone so insignificant that he would not have requested for the name unless Gamora had not decided to deflect to the company of the Terran.

The Stone… The Stone had destroyed him in the same manner as it was supposed to destroy Xandar in his hands.

…Did it not?

Ronan pushed the confusing train of thought to the back of his head. Now was not the time or the location for these useless ponderings – they did not take him anywhere. He had to move. It was likely that the female's screams had been heard and the room was about to be filled with soldiers. He was not planning to stand and wait to be restrained and put down like a beast.

He had to locate where he was and find a way out of this facility.

…He would walk out even if he had to destroy everything on his way.

Clutching the pistol in his right hand he stepped out of the room… just to notice that he was undeniably late. A woman with a long blond ponytail and brown light battle suit was closing the distance, followed by two men clad in orange-brown armor with rifles in their hands.

"Hold still Chiss!" she shouted…

…A grimace revealing his teeth he took the aim and fired the pistol; once, twice, three times.

…To see the men fall down due the the perfect hits to their chests.

…And to witness the woman toss the ammo of blue light spat out by his pistol away with a swing of a glowing sword of green energy.

_That was unexpected,_ he thought and pulled the trigger again a few times to unleash a rapid series of ammos. The hissing and humming beam of energy danced in the female's hands like the movement of the blade had been magically pre-programmed to meet his attack with infallible certainty. Each and every single shot he fired bounced off the green cylinder; each and every single shot missed his target. It was like a green wall of energy. A translucent wall.

_I do not have time for this!_

Ronan decided to close in and take her down in hand-to-hand combat. He sprinted towards the woman whilst holding the pistol in front of his face, looking through the sights and keeping the opponent occupied with a continuous flow of ammos flying through the air.

She held the blade with only one hand, he noticed. The left one was at her side, fingers rising as if in a salute. It was almost an unnoticeable gesture –

\- But he fell down on his knees right in the middle of a step when an invisible force kicked his chest and the air inside his lungs was lost just like his balance.

The second punch of a nonexistent hand was directed to his left side with perfect accuracy and he felt his ears ringing. Momentarily he staggered, feeling the pain in his ribs flare.

Somewhere he found the strength yet again and was quickly on his feet. He dodged the green blade, feeling the heat slip past his skin only millimeters away and went for her hand. A growl leaving his lips he pushed the hand holding the weapon and its wielder against the wall. Lifted her up until her feet lost their contact with the ground. Looking straight into the eyes of his opponent, a grim smile spread on his lips although the injured parts of his body protested by sending sharp spikes of pain.

The eyes of the woman did not meet his. Instead they drifted to focus at something behind him.

_Shit._

He cursed mentally when the first ammo hit him. He lost control of his arms when the second one hammered into his flesh. Freed from his grip, the woman dropped down to her feet with agility identical to a feline creature. The third ammo bit him to his back and made him fall to his knees.

He felt dizzy, unable to focus his eyesight and collapsed on to his side. The world shifted, faded away.

* * *

His officers had reported that the prisoner refused to answer to any questions. Usually interrogating captives was not a task Revan took – there were dedicated officers for that purpose. But this time he had decided to make an exception.

The man sitting calmly inside the holding cell was an interesting sight. He appeared to be somewhere in his early to mid thirties – in case human age could be used to describe the age of the being, which clearly did not belong to the human race. He was very tall and in excellent physical condition, although heavily bruised under the vibrant light blue skin - reminiscent to multiple fractures his body had contained when they had recovered his unconscious form at the site of the assumed crash landing.

And he was still injured; a majority of the fractures only partially healed due to the incomplete, interrupted healing process. Likely it must have hurt like all Hell, pulling a half-functional body like that around. Certainly he was still in pain due to the lack of medication. But it had been solely the man's own choice so feeling compassion would have been a waste of Revan's time.

The most intriguing part of the stranger's appearance was the black paint, which had not faded the slightest during whatever ordeals the man had gone through before being transported to the ship and after that. It covered approximately half of his face in a form of some bizarre mask of war. It went around both of his eyes – those were two piercing dark blue, purplish tinted spots in the darkness - and up to his forehead. It followed the shape of his cheeks with two uneven lines, as if those had been drawn with a rough hand. His jaw and lower lip were painted completely black.

The blue-skinned man had not reacted to Revan's presence in any distinguishable manner when he had entered the room. Nor there was even the mildest change in his behavior during the two minutes Revan merely observed. The male sat his back straight, his head up high and eyes fixed to the wall at the other side of the room. It was a proud and bold pose. No fear.

Revan took a chair and sat in front of him, in the exact line of his sight. They would have been face to face, had there not been a blue-shaded force field separating them.

"Initially they thought you were a Chiss. But your blood sample indicates otherwise," Revan said.

The man did not react. Revan did not need to rely on the Force to read signals of rage, anger and fury. They were central feelings dominating the man's tense posture in addition to his aura.

"What are you?" he asked.

His medical staff had analyzed the man's blood sample. They had been unable to make a connection to any known race of humanoids. This fact combined with what Revan had seen in the ship's security footage concerning the _incident_ at the _Justice's_ medical deck was enough to grab his interest.

The man clearly was Force blind. There was no contradictory evidence. But the speed of his reflexes had been far above the typical humanoid range, as if the Force had fuelled his actions. And the fact that he had resisted multiple stun bolts was quite a feat, Revan had to admit. Everything combined, he had to evaluate the potential threat related to this stranger who had proceeded to storm his ship. He had to figure out the man's connection to Mandalorians and, most of all, his objective.

…And the man kept his silence. His face was a mask of stone. The black and the blue completely still, completely unresponsive. Only the purplish eyes were a mirror for the rage boiling inside his mind.

"I do not take it lightly when my crew is attacked," Revan stated, letting steel slip into his voice.

The man remained silent for so long that Revan did not expect him to answer. But this time he did. His voice was very low, it held power. It seemed to come somewhere very deep inside his chest.

"You mock me. With the mask. With your fear." Open disdain twisted the male's lips.

"I do not fear you," Revan stated and stood up.

Revan walked calmly towards the controls of the force cage and inactivated it. The blue cage blinked and disappeared. The man did not seem to react to the recent turn of events, but Revan expected to have gained his full attention.

The Jedi Knight sat again to the chair in front of the man.

"Let's go through this very clearly. You attacked my crew. You are in extreme luck that the blaster you stole was set on stun – I hardly believe it was intentional. Usually I would let beings like you rot at some remote Republic prison facility, because the likes of you do not belong aboard my ship."

He did not get a reaction.

"But yet again you are in luck. We are nowhere near a prison asteroid and my staff keeps telling me that throwing someone out of the air lock is inhumane."

Still silence. No shift in the intense stare of the purplish eyes.

"So only this one time I am offering you the opportunity to provide an explanation. Just this once. Who are you and who in the bloody Hell do you work for?"

The man blinked. Once. Twice.

"You do not know who I am?" he finally asked.

Now there was also something else than boiling rage present.

Revan shook his head from side to side.

"Wouldn't have the reason to ask, would I?" the Jedi replied.

Yes – there was something. A slight change in the man's demeanor. A hint of uneasiness. Like he had lost a small fraction of those steel strong foundations that kept his posture up and proud.

"Where am I?" he asked.


	2. The Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronan finds himself in a tough spot...

The small room was not much more than walls around him and a vertically assembled row of inactivated power cells in front of him. When functional, those would spit out bands of bluish-tinted, semitransparent impenetrable energy, closing the area in the form of another wall. The room housed no additional furniture to two chairs, both of them made out of dark metal and one of these rigidly fixed to the floor. He had chosen to sit in that particular chair. He did not have many options since the other chair had been on the other side of the wall of energy.

Just minutes ago it had been empty – now a visitor occupied it. Heavily armored and likely armed, the man certainly did not carry the appearance of a typical interrogations officer. Unlike those weak humans in uniforms combining dark brown and orange, the appearance of this visitor reeked of battle.

Something was clearly off.

It was not only the environment, although in many ways resembling what Ronan had seen and experienced before, but lacking any actual familiar aspects. Exceeding those details he could perceive with his eyes and other senses, the way he had been treated raised far more questions.

His fate was never to be held a prisoner, to be questioned and grilled of his actions by his enemies. Already years ago he had crossed all boundaries enabling such mercy and due to nothing more than his own choice and sheer necessity. A half of the galaxy wanted his head and most of the rest would celebrate seeing it separated from his corpse. He did not expect this wretched…diplomacy.

Initially Ronan had decided that recent occurrences were a part of a Xandarian contrivance to throw him off the track. After all it had been the most obvious conclusion, crystal clear even. The last time he recalled, he had been on the surface of the planet Xandar. Walking on Xandarian soil. Smelling the acrid stench of smoke, but also first scents of victory…

…And then he had watched his intentions collide with his means and shatter into a thousand pieces…

At the time, during that one single distinguishable moment he had thought it meant Death. Those pictures and images of pain, his flesh being torn apart and ceasing to exist – they still were raw and fresh within his mind. Obviously he had been wrong, had misinterpreted every single one of his senses simultaneously. It _had to be_ so.

But yet, even now and been given the time to ponder his circumstances he was unable to draw a link between the past and the present.

Too many factors were…out of place. The Kree was unable to completely fully shrug the feeling off, no matter how many times he rationalized to himself that there were not many plausible options.

Where he looked for answers, he was faced only by broken logic.

"Where am I?" Ronan had allowed the question leave his lips, partially disgusted because he well knew risks embedded to the action, but knowing that he did not have much choice.

And the stranger who had never given his name, the man wearing the featureless red and black mask explained.

Clearly computer-enhanced, the man's voice had a mechanical edge to it. Ronan listened to those few words defining his alleged situation in silence and tendrils of disbelief traversing his mind. His eyes were fixed to the thin, dark, rectangular slit, which cut the metal of the mask from left to right. Other than that the mask did not have significant external features. It was a seemingly simple construction. A number of scratches crisscrossing the painted surface identified it as an equipment of warfare and not decoration.

He listened and tried to hold back his anger. So far he had managed to suppress it only poorly. Nothing more than common sense and his ribs, which objected sharply to every intake of air, kept him from going for the unseen weaponry hidden beneath the robes the man was wearing and lunging towards the doorway, and hallways beyond.

By his nature Ronan despised the lack of respect the stranger showed. It was both unacceptable and cowardly to address a Kree of his stature in such a manner – not giving him the freedom of looking into one's eyes. If the being in question had been one of his underlings, Ronan would have replaced the sorry creature without hesitation. Preferably in such a violently abrupt manner that guaranteed that he would never be bothered by misconduct of this kind again.

But since he had already concluded that his current position was turning out to be somewhat challenging and required more circumspect play than what usually was his preferred way, the road of observation was the most profitable path he could take. So he had swallowed the hatred, disgust and frustration down and the end result was a thick, poisonous knot around his internals.

And only barely he was able to resist the urge of clenching his fingers when the man finished his explanation, said words still lingering in the air.

_What mind games do they attempt to play?_

"Do not take me for a fool," Ronan told the man, irritated, lips twisting and patience once again wearing thin. "There is _no_ such _establishment_ as this Galactic Republic. Is this some sort of Xandarian trickery you are attempting? If so - it is in vain."

"I have no need to play tricks on you, prisoner," the man responded sharply. "This _'Xandari'_ of yours is nor an ally or an enemy of the Republic. In fact I have never heard of such a location, affiliation or what the kriff it even is."

A small portion of Ronan believed the man – the inability of pronouncing the name of his enemy correctly could be deemed as something vaguely resembling a proof. The slip had seemed inadvertent. But he never rushed into conclusions. Not also this time.

If they were not claiming to be Xandarian, who were they claiming to be?

The man's armor did not bear any insignia. At least for the part he was able to see.

A majority of the protective covering was hidden under long, dark brown robes made out of plain cloth. The visible part of the construction appeared to get its form from a number of metallic plates fixed together, overlapping, allowing movement of parts in respect to each other. Likely in order not to encumber its carrier's movements, Ronan suspected – which in turn meant that the man sitting in front of him probably battled in close quarters. Red, metallic and visibly scarred vambraces covered both wrists and arms up to elbows, strengthening the conclusion.

Who had they sent to interrogate him – some common grunt? A mere pawn?

"Show me a galactic map and I shall point the location to you," the Kree stated venomously, not intending to take part in whatever game he was pushed to play.

"You are in no position to make demands. Am I clear?" the response came without hesitation.

Ronan snorted, not impressed. The armored man leaned forward in his chair, posture slightly tensioning.

"One last time: whom do you work for? Do you or your associates have connections to the Mandalorian fleet?"

He did not answer. He would not have answered had he understood the question. He did not carry the intention of giving the man a slightest bit of information. Not sharing anything, important, insignificant, nonetheless. It was one victory he yet could take and he was going to fight for it with everything he had. He was very familiar with interrogation techniques and could use it to his advance.

Control was the key word. Being in charge.

…If this could be described an interrogation. Hardly it could. Ronan connected the word with something requiring concrete doses of blood and pain, fear and despair. Mental and physical turmoil, destruction.

So what was the purpose of this small game of deceit?

These non-existent names?

This children's play?

The nonsense?

The man wearing the mask observed him calmly. Still and in complete silence.

"Now, this is curious," the man finally said steadily, breaking the moment's silence. "The confusion... So you _are_ stating the truth. You absolutely do not know where you are."

And as if he had suddenly lost his interest, the armored man stood up. Robes fluttering, he gestured towards the control panel and the blue shaded force field flickered back on with the man meters away from the controls. Once again the translucent barrier was separating them and Ronan from his freedom.

The Kree grit his teeth. He had stood up, not exactly noticing when.

"You are under arrest by the Galactic Republic. Ramifications resulting your actions aboard _the Justice_ will be evaluated at a later date. Inability to cooperate will be deemed as resistance and will further impact your sentence. Due to offensive actions against the Republic Navy you are treated as a suspected war criminal and have no rights for legal representation."

Sentences came out in an almost automated manner and bland tone of voice, signaling that whatever the man had sought he had gained. The conversation was over and when the last words were said the man turned around and proceeded towards the doorway with swift steps.

" _Why_ I am aboard this vessel?"

It came out as half a shout, half a command directed towards the man's back. Ronan had said the words louder than he had intended. But his patience had long since closed it limits, frustration gnawing its way out inside his skull like a maniac trapped animal.

A short silence filled the room when the armored man stopped and turned around to answer. The masked gaze fell once more on him; the mask was an emotionless wall.

"You are the only one who can give the why, to me or to yourself. But as for the where, I can _enlighten_ you," the man stated.

"We picked you up at Antar Four. The ground team reported it as a potential crash landing due to impact scars and _ejecta_ on the ground, but they were unable to confirm whether or not there were remains of a spacecraft. So far we don't know by what means you arrived, but it was with a Hell of speed."

He did not understand. It was no worth denying it any further. There was nothing he could grab and use to support any theories he had constructed. It was a globe of bizarre emptiness surrounding him, the unfamiliar feeling of not being in charge…of not even being in control. The damning ignorance – the attribute he often sought to see as a weakness in others – it seemed to define his existence.

For the first time since he had regained his consciousness in this absurd location, the stinging jolts of pain were an obvious fiery barrage of blades beating his muscle, bone and tendons.

For the first time, he felt tired.

He sat down. Leaned forward in the chair and rested his temples to his hands.

He did not raise his head when he heard the door slide open and then close again, leaving him to the solitude and to the dark storm of his thoughts.


	3. Distractions

Meetra stood by the door, exchanging sidelong glances with the green-skinned Twi'lek guard wearing a standard-issue Republic armor stationed outside. The presence of a Jedi, anyone of them, was a message to the soldiers – it never needed to be said out loud but the troops were well aware that something of importance was going on.

Needless to say, the presence of the Revanchist made their interest peak through the roof and those were the signals she was sensing, radiating from the soldier's aura.

The young, blonde-haired female Jedi Knight had decided to stay and wait, and not only because she was curious. She had probed towards the room a couple of times…well, a few…in order to sense any forms of disturbances. But the Force had been a calm pond with subtle exceptions of spikes of anger and fury. Her informal master had not been a source for any of those.

"So…" Meetra said when the familiar figure of the armored man had walked out of the interrogation room and the door had silently slid closed behind him.

"Found out anything?"

Hearing her question, Revan gave out a short nod. The man did not appear to slow down his steady and determined gait, so Meetra accompanied him while the masked Jedi walked the hallway towards the nearest pair of elevators. The emotionless red and black mask tilted slightly towards her when the man answered.

"He didn't have the faintest idea of who I am," Revan said.

"That must feel refreshing," she noted, a smile playing on her features. She knew very well that there had been amusement embedded to Revan's words although subtle emotions were lost within the distorted, near-mechanical voice.

"He has absolutely no connections to the Mandalorians and that's exactly where my interest in him diminishes," Revan continued.

"I sensed his confusion, Meetra – likely the bastard didn't even know what I was talking about. It's a case closed, we'll drop him off somewhere at the Core after there's less on the table."

… _Less on the table…_

It was painfully obvious what the Revanchist referred to. In a few hours they were going to take a leap towards the Core World space to the expected location of the tail of the Mandalorian fleet…and from then on things would turn increasingly hectic. All that remained was the targeted rendezvous with the second fleet, led by Malak, ETA no more than nine hours from this moment.

But she did not believe that Revan was going to leave certain stones unturned when they were almost literally placed on his open, waiting palm.

"You might want to reconsider," Meetra said straight.

"I got a report from engineering, Revan. They've been looking into his equipment. The damaged…weapon - if we can call it so – it electrocuted Lieutenant Kyle three times before they gave up trying to activate it. Seems to be a sort of a safety mechanism, possibly encoded with his DNA. It's military technology we've never seen before. Perhaps there is something that could be…gained."

Revan shrugged.

"Tell them to find a more competent engineer. Take your time. The man was found in the Republic space so he falls under Republic jurisdiction. By the martial law the Republic will in any case withhold any war technology. It's not like he's getting them back."

Externally, the man seemed almost nonchalant and although undoubtedly his mind was already fixed to and furiously storming tactics related to the upcoming, what she had just heard still had not been an answer she had expected.

"And the Revanchist would let an opportunity of examining alien technology slip past his fingers?" she asked with genuine disbelief in the tone.

"No - he would not. You know me well, Meetra. I'll head to engineering straight away, but I doubt there's much I can do in this timeframe. It'll in any case need to wait."

… _Until we've stopped them, pushed this onslaught back. That's what he's referring to._

_Anything that can be used against them…_

_We'll take anything._

"There's more to it, Revan," she told him.

"The technology used to construct his armor and the…shaft is _new_. But I do think that we need to know where he is from. For someone who is blind to the Force his healing factor is unexpectedly high. That's why he was able to take the medics out by surprise and probably due to this he also was able to resist stun bolts. Injured or no, he is a walking war machine and taking the equipment into account I think we need to be aware if there's more of them out there."

… _Moreover, if they are a threat…_

The blue-skinned stranger reminded her of the Mandalorian people in far too many aspects. It was a chilling thought.

Elevator doors slid silently open and they stepped in.

"Enhancements…" Revan muttered as the elevator accelerated.

"Or it's genetic," Meetra said. "Or both. More scans are needed."

Silence fell for a second before the elevator's movement came to a halt. The armored man reached out and let his gloved fingers run softly down her cheek, pulling his hand back just before the doors opened.

Although the blank piece of armor currently fully obscured his features as it always did in the public, she knew exactly what kind of an expression it hid. If the mask had ceased to exist that passing moment, she would have seen the warmth in his brown eyes and his lips curving to a roguish smile. It was a handsome face. Initially it had belonged to a leader and a comrade, then to a friend, and now to someone she still couldn't form a word for.

_Totally against the Jedi code_ , the lone voice had nagged somewhere at the back of her head for months until it finally had diminished into something she could fully ignore.

At this point – after all this time, all the blood and suffering she had witnessed - there were many ideals in the code that had lost a portion of their pristine flawlessness in her eyes. Because, ultimately, the safety of the galaxy carried the greatest weight…and the Republic would crumble to pieces unless actions were taken. These actions – the bare and raw necessity - had classified them as outcasts in the eyes of the Jedi Council.

Among thousands of others, she had left the Order behind and those very values that had molded her to the person she was. She had joined the crusade of the Revanchist and she hadn't looked back once.

"What comes to people, you are the expert, Meetra. I trust your judgment in this - see what you can figure out."

Revan suggested when stepping out from the elevator, before disappearing behind the closing doors.

* * *

_They do not know who I am._

His face had dominated broadcasts throughout the galaxy for years and these people did not know who he was. He had worn the infamous tar of the Supreme Accuser for decades – the exact same mask of black paint was still covering his features – and this ignorant lot did not seem to be capable of taking note of this fact. Children all over the galaxy were scared into acceptable behavior by mentioning his name and he had started to suspect that his captors had never heard of it.

It was bizarre yet frustrating, and he needed answers.

Although…

There were theories sweeping past Ronan's mind, which he did not want to look further into.

Not yet.

Theories he knew would _stalk_ him until he looked them straight into the eye.

First things first, the Kree had taken a while to analyze his injuries and consider the impact of those to his capability to fight. Since he had been stripped out of his armor and weaponless, he'd need to go hand-to-hand and the current state of his body did not get his hopes high on sweeping out of this vessel with ease. He had far from a clear picture of the number of opposition waiting outside, but he was not about to take it lightly.

Ronan was no stranger to pain, wounds and broken limbs and what came to the first he was able to handle such amounts without flinching that would have rendered an average man unconscious. Pain was a daily visitor in a Kree Accuser's life; it was a constant stitched to the essence of the duty.

He also was quite well educated about the biology of a variety of different species – after all he had been a central force in tearing a countless number of creatures apart and had often gained firsthand visual evidence upon what lay beneath the skin. He had studied those large and small wonders of biology, often feeling cold amusement whilst he was at it.

Due to the extensive, dark bruising under his skin, the swelling and jolts of pain which reminded him of a pack of serrated saws slicing into his tendons, he had concluded that although correctly set, a number of bones in his left arm and ribs were still in the process of healing. His left arm was almost useless and possibly bones could break again in case he needed to exert it in ways requiring strength.

Set bones meant that they had actually taken the effort to heal his injuries – an action he definitely would not have expected to take place and reasons behind it raised even more questions in his already strained mind.

Nonetheless he was restrained, obviously and currently quite painfully, so the most fruitful course of action was to gather strength and let his natural healing kick in. Possibly try to maneuver more information out from the captors about the prevailing situation. If these people did not know who he was, the element of surprise was his to utilize - to his advance.

Eventually.

Eventually they needed to move him. The cell he was currently held in was not meant for longer captivity.

The door slid silently open, efficiently cutting his thought process, and a slender, lean feminine figure walked calmly in. He immediately took note of the sleek metal cylinder hanging from her belt and made the mental connection to the sword of energy he had seen before. It was an interesting battling technique, dodging ammos with a blade made out of energy and he had contemplated why he didn't have prior knowledge of its existence. He easily recalled the heat, which the blade had emitted when it had slipped past his skin and he had no doubt in his mind that it would burn if a contact was made.

But even a blade like this was no match for his Universal Weapon. He idly wondered if the Weapon still existed. He had a faint recollection that something had happened to it, but could not fully decipher details.

Ronan did not say a word when he sized up the newest and the aesthetically most pleasing visitor so far. This was a young human female. Her brown armor appeared to be of a thin and light construction, not restricting movement whilst providing only little protection. The tight-fitting suit did not hide her athletic build, quite the opposite in fact. The woman's hair was fairly short, reaching her jaw and although flowing loosely, strands were swept behind her ears – an unusual cut for a soldier.

Possibly, because her appearance gave the impression of her valuing agility over strength in her battle technique and there was a certain tint of determination in her stance, his thoughts made a slight shift towards Gamora and Nebula.

The woman walked right next to the energy field and chose to stand there. She carried a small, portable panel in her hands.

"My name is Meetra Surik, Knight of the Jedi Order and Commander in the Republic Navy," she said politely, directing an almost casual nod towards him.

Her eyes had lingered on the discoloring of his skin marking his injuries for a mere second, but he had noticed it. In her expression, was there…genuine compassion?

Pity?

_No - this one is nothing like the two sisters_ , he mentally sneered.

_It will be easy to crush this little female_.

* * *

Meetra took the time to examine the bald, blue-skinned stranger and meet the piercing purple eyes amidst the black paint. It was an unwavering and unyielding glare of open hostility, engineered to agitate fear and pry out a sense of inferiority towards the source. And like the stare, the man behind it was nothing less than intimidating in his appearance.

She had seen the surveillance tapes, of course; witnessed the swiftness of his reflexes and the sheer unbending strength in his movement as seen through glass lenses of cameras. And now, when she saw him in flesh, Meetra had to admit that the recordings did not give out the full truth. If the prisoner stood up, he would have towered far above her head. The well-defined and honed muscle structure of his bare chest hinted towards a lifetime of practice and combat. He clearly was a warrior; someone forged from blood and battle to a man's shape.

Because a man's shape it was – apart from the blue skin and the purple, unnaturally large irises, his proportions were perfectly identical to a human.

"I see that you have attempted to heal me," the man stated unprompted with a blank tone. "Why?"

It was an odd question.

"It is a standard protocol," Meetra said, "One the medics would have completed had you not taken an offensive against them."

The blue-skinned stranger did not visibly react to her response. There was no observable shift in his drilling glare and stony features and Meetra could not fully shrug off the feeling of being weighted through and through.

"Taken the circumstances, human, it was the only suitable manner to act."

The soft, dark baritone of his voice sounded almost…defensive.

Meetra quickly made the connection.

"The syringe…it was a sedative they were about to inject you with. The medics were not expecting such a powerful reaction to kolto," she explained patiently, "and in the end they didn't have the time to bind you – the latter of which is also a standard protocol."

The Jedi's mind walked through the events systematically.

"Only a neural disruptor collar was placed – and apparently you had no issues with it."

"Do _not_ insult me, little human. Slaves wear collars where I come from."

His lips twisted in disgust and Meetra got a glimpse of black teeth. Naturally black or stained due to an absurd visual impact – she could not decide which.

"And where that may be?" Meetra asked, adding subtle encouragement to the question with the Force.

The man resisted the attempt. He pressed his lips tight together, uncooperative and stubborn as ever whilst the purple eyes burned with their lone flame. It was a haunting look…somehow.

"Many would be terrified in your position… A Jedi can rip the information straight from your head, they say. It is a popular rumor."

Not that she ever would do so – no Jedi would use such measures; breach mental barriers and _rape_ a mind in order to _see_ the actual memories. But it was worth mentioning. She wanted to keep him talking.

He did not seem to be impressed.

"Feel free, oh-Jedi, to read my mind," the man mocked. "Share with me the thought circling there - how I will _snap_ your slender neck with my bare hands and watch the light fade from your blue eyes."

His voice grew tenser with every word said. He almost caressed the last few of them; as if her death was a delicious dessert he fantasized of eating.

The fact that he had noticed her eye color was even more haunting than the look in his eyes. But she kept her ground and responded to his stare, mentally reaching forward towards his aura and stroking the cacophony of emotions present.

"The hate…the anger… You force yourself to feel those – you support to these as if they were the only means keeping you focused," Meetra analyzed calmly.

"You know very well that you have brought this upon yourself and yet you do not provide an explanation or attempt to cooperate – likely you acknowledge that such actions could improve your situation… Which in turn means that you do not seek such a resolution."

"Quit your meaningless blabbering!" he spat out, almost growling and openly enraged.

Something she had said had breached through the walls and bit him. It took a while for him to gather his bearings. He sat still, posture tense and hostile, nostrils flaring as a signal of the rage still ablaze within his mind and soul.

"Then, what do you think I seek, human?" the man finally asked. The tone was mocking, but Meetra utilized the question nevertheless.

"Revenge," she answered.

"Is that so?"

"A man who only sees enemies around him and does not expect otherwise has all the reasons to do so."

"An insightful theory…but wrong," he sneered, a dark smile playing across his lips.

She sensed that there was truth but also a lie clinging to his words. Meetra decided not to reveal that she was aware of the latter. She wanted him to cooperate and the fragile discussion she had managed to keep going could shatter any moment and the man lock himself within the self-imposed stubborn silence.

She decided that this was the time for the next step.

"Xandar, then," she stated. "Tell me about Xandar. It is a planet, correct?"

A dark panel behind a transparisteel wall structure mounted to a cell wall flickered to life when she shared the information depicted on the small panel in her hands on the screen. The man turned abruptly towards the initially hidden and now alive screen, hints of surprise crossing his features when he saw the star patterns dotting the picture.

"Here's the map you requested. Show me the location of Xandar."

"No, little human, Xandar is not a planet," he said, eyes never leaving the screen. "It is a _disease_ which needs to be…"

The blue-skinned male stood up to his full height and took a step towards the screen to make out the patterns clearly.

"… _cured."_

Minutes passed in complete silence as the man examined the screen.

First she sensed signs of increasing frustration…

…Then it evolved into full-fletched anger as the dark cloud that initially was his state of mind turned into a thunderstorm promising instant death for anyone closing the distance.

So it was surprising for her to see his shoulders shake when a rumbling, bitter laugher left his lips.

"Feeding false information is a common elicitation tactic, _wench_ ," he spat when he turned to face her, voice molten steel. "Do you play these games as per orders from Thanos?"

Meetra shook her head, not knowing what he referred to.

"It is the map of the known space. Which is the first familiar star pattern you see?" she calmly enquired.

He answered with a long, dark, ramming stare and remained silent. It was all she needed.

Meetra wanted to heave out a long sigh. A portion of her pitied the man. Revan had been correct and there was nothing more she needed to know. Wherever this man had arrived from, it was outside charted areas and if he did not have the knowledge of a single coordinate on this map he most certainly was not a military level threat.

Independent on any forms of technologies he or his people wielded.

Yes – she felt pity.

Here, the man was a stranger. In a few days to time - taken that they had meanwhile _not_ been blown into space dust – the man would find himself in a Republic correctional facility and that would be the end of it. There, he'd still be a stranger, a foreigner. This was the last time see expected to see him. There were more important matters on the way – the only open question had been the threat level he possessed and now she considered it fully closed.

"I am sorry," she said softly before exiting the room.

* * *

Revan had placed the armor and the deformed weapon on a workbench. His expression behind the mask had long since evolved into an incipient frown when he had examined the pieces.

So far he had not gained much to celebrate about.

The black full body armor was of a very heavy, layered construction and although he favored quite protective armor by Jedi standards himself, carrying weight like this around would have gravely hindered his ability to move. It was in a fairly good condition if the large circular depression with melted edges in the front was not taken into account. The impact, which had caused it, had eaten through various different metal layers of the chest plate like some potent acid, but had not penetrated fully through.

Likely the armor was the sole reason why its original owner was still alive and breathing - and according to the message it was telling to Revan, the owner in question based his battle strategy significantly on drawing an opponent close and then ramming it to shreds and pulp like a Basilisk was droid. Hell - with that much weight on shoulders he certainly was not dancing around delicately like a bloody butterfly either.

The armor was an impressive piece of equipment, but Revan had been mostly studying the weapon…the tool…the pole…the what-the-kriff with a critical eye.

Revan had carefully probed with the Force the internals of what appeared to be one and a half meter long sleek metal shaft with a clump of partly melted metal clinging to the other end. When the engineers had driven power to it, it had responded…aggressively and although he surmised that the reaction was easily evoked, he wanted to understand the technology behind it.

Or moreover the intended purpose of the equipment.

If he stretched his imagination to its limits, it looked like…

It looked like a…

_Hammer. Who bloody fights with a hammer?_

His thoughts were cut abruptly when his wrist comm crackled into life.

"Commander, we just shot down a Mandalorian probe droid."

It was the hasty voice of Major Katarn, one of his bridge officers.

_Damn!_

"How quickly?" Revan asked.

"Not fast enough, sir. We believe that our location may be compromised."

The cover was blown. He could not expect anything else.

_Let's see how fast there's a swarm of them out here._

"I'll be there in a minute," he said to the comm, already on the move.

"Order the fleet to start forming a distant blockade around Malak's expected exit coordinates. Tell them to maintain a safety distance of twenty klicks. That's the line of defense. We need to get the ships here undistracted and that line cannot be breached."

He had to craft a distraction and there was one very efficient way.

Unlike many in the brass, Revan did not think the fleet consisted of irreplaceable individuals. For him, they all were expendable.

All of them.

"Keep _the Justice_ in the front – let's get them focused on us. They'll want to get this one first. Securing the arrival of Malak's fleet is of the utmost importance and this is the best bait we can put out there."

* * *

He heard the blatantly squalling sirens. Felt tremors of explosions shaking the hull. Saw lights of illuminated panels flickering.

Cursed silently in his mind.

The steady hum of the spacecraft had exploded into a war an hour or a two back and Ronan still didn't even know who had attacked whom.

The impenetrable energy field in front of him remained – it stood as a constant, bitter reminder of the state he had been downgraded to. It mocked him. And still, at some very distant level he acknowledged that he deserved all of that.

Failure justified punishment.

…" _A man who only sees enemies around him and does not expect otherwise has all the reasons to do so."_

So did betrayal. Betrayal justified punishment. Thanos would not see it in any other way. Neither did he. It had been only a logical assumption that Thanos was playing a part in all of this – and the possible error in the supposition was slowly sinking in.

After the crash landing the collapsed frame and shattered core of the _Dark Aster_ had been ablaze and he had stood amongst the ruin of what he had called his flagship. The exoskeleton had protected him during the fall from the sky, from debris and flying, skin-piercing shrapnel.

So he had stood almost uninjured, the familiar weight of the Universal Weapon in his hands. It had burned with purple flame; energies emitted by the Infinity Stone caressed the metallic surface.

Yes - he had lost his ship, but he had not been willing to lose the war. The possibility of _not_ unleashing what he defined the core essence of 'justice' on Xandar had not even crossed his mind.

And in the end, Xandar had stood.

It had been a failure of the utmost extent. Not being able to fulfill his duty as the Supreme Accuser made his existence pointless. The dark, disgusting irony present was almost beautiful in its cruelty.

…" _It is the map of the known space. Which is the first familiar star pattern you see?"_

There were none. Not a single distinguishable feature of a solar system had been on the map she had shown. Nothing.

…" _I am sorry."_

The Terran had directed the Infinity Stone's power towards him. Some of the Stones had the power of bending space and time…

…" _I am sorry."_

Had the Star-Lord, by accident and due to foolishness…?

The door slid open and Ronan's focus was immediately directed towards a man's shape at the doorway. It was a bulky build of a heavily armored, tall soldier. Fingers were bent around the grip of a pistol. The shade of the armor was deep blue and the cross-shaped visor cutting the helmet remotely reminded him of the red and black mask he had seen before.

Although there were similarities, his seasoned instincts screamed of immediate danger so he jolted up to his feet.

The first shot the intruder's pistol spat out was directed to the controls of the energy field. The transparent wall flickered and ceased to exist.

The next shot left the barrel of the pistol only a fraction of a second afterwards and it flew straight towards where his head had been. Ronan had anticipated this course of action and ducked below, already moving a step away and closing the distance. A barrage of red lines of lethality passed him near his right side.

He was going for the gun, actions fuelled to limits by adrenaline and the rawest instinct of survival. He knew that dodging fire in a space larger than a few square meters would have increased his odds. If there were any, they were not turning into his favor -

\- Something gnashed his right arm. It didn't even slow him down and within two seconds the distance had shrunk into almost nonexistent. His eyes were fixated to the gun and he reached fiercely for the hand holding the pistol. He'd use all the strength he had to redirect the barrel with sheer force.

…Grab the wrist holding the gun and twist it, break it, hear the bones snap, gain control over the weapon.

Except that he was a fraction of a second too late.

…The finger bent to pull the trigger…

The high-pitched screak of the pistol was lost within teeth of pain, which bit into his consciousness.

The previous time Ronan had taken a direct hit was not long ago. And it had been a weapon holding a much more deadly level of firepower; a single pistol's ammo was nothing comparable to it. But that time there had been his armor between, absorbing the energy and the heat - Kree armor was a technological wonder.

This time there was only skin.

The ammo drilled its way through his abdomen, tearing, gnashing and destroying internal organs on the way. He felt it exit near his spine. Pain erupted in his mind and turned his vision red. He heard a lone grunt leave his lips whilst his features twisted to a teeth-revealing grimace of agony.

His hands met the cool surface of the floor heavily – he had instinctively bent forward and had not noticed his legs giving in under his weight in the middle of a stride.

An armored boot made powerfully contact with the side of his head and he was flung to his side without being able to resist, disoriented by the impact and the injury. He lay on the floor panting, trying to gather his breath, cheekbone resting on the cool and smooth surface…aware of the warmness sprinkling from the fresh hole in his abdomen.

Submerged within the ocean of pain, Ronan faintly perceived the change in the lighting – how shadows were constructed around him. The dark man's shape standing by the doorway was gone and the door had slid closed. He was alone. The warrior had left, he discerned.

Even in his current state of mind Ronan immediately knew why and just because he would have done exactly the same. There was no reason to waste time, effort or resources on a gravely wounded enemy.

On someone who would in any case shortly succumb to his injuries.


End file.
